


Tea and Biscuits

by Dessie



Category: Arthur Ransome - Swallows and Amazons
Genre: Gen, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2007, recipient:Janet Carter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-25
Updated: 2007-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-08 19:01:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dessie/pseuds/Dessie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tale of a friendship forged between two women abandoned by their children every summer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea and Biscuits

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Lizzie for the amazingly last minute beta! This fic kind of ran away with me, but I hope it is at least true to the *spirit* of the original request.

_17 August 1929*_

"Mrs Blackett to see you, Mrs Walker."

Staring at a tear in her stocking as though it might miraculously heal itself if she just left it long enough, it was some moments before Mary Walker realised she was being spoken to. She put down her needle and looked up at the doorway with a puzzled smile.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs Jackson, what was that?"

"Mrs Blackett's here to see you, mum," said Mrs Jackson patiently. "From up at Beckfoot," she added, as though this meant something significant. She was a solid, dependable sort of woman, who had appeared completely unruffled by the strange antics of her visitors from the south. Indeed, she had lent the explorers' expedition all the food and equipment they could require with never a word on the folly of letting four children go off by themselves in a boat to camp in the middle of nowhere, as Mary would have expected.

But her mouth was drawn into a disapproving frown now, and she sniffed before continuing. "She said as you weren't expecting her, Mrs Walker." The disapproval in her voice at this lack of etiquette could not have been more evident if she were announcing the arrival of Old Harry himself at the door.

Mary kept all amusement out of her voice and her face straight, however. "Please, show her in." She abandoned the stocking and stood up curiously to meet her guest, not knowing of anyone who could have any reason to call on her.

"Hello, hello, hello!" cried the visitor as she bustled in - and there really was no other word for it - and if Mary felt any surprise, not a trace of it showed on her face. The arrival was a woman a year or two younger than herself and a great deal smaller and plumper, and with a smile on her face as though she could think of no greater delight at that time than to be shown into the parlour at Holly Howe.

"You must be Mrs Walker," she said cheerfully, holding out a hand which Mary shook, slightly dazed. "Molly Blackett. I'm so dreadfully sorry to drop in on you unannounced like this! You must think me terribly rude, but I'm so rarely over to this side of the lake and one has to take one's opportunities where one can, don't you think?" She had a pleasant - if loud - voice with a hint of a laugh in it, and Mary couldn't help but smile in response.

"I do, rather. Think nothing of it, Mrs Blackett. Can I offer you some tea?" She indicated a chair and they both sat down, Molly Blackett still talking.

"Oh, no thank you, my dear, but thank you for the offer...I'm afraid I'm going to have to be terribly rude once again and leave you almost as soon as I've arrived, but I must get to the butcher's before he shuts or we may very well be eating dry biscuits and cheese for supper tonight. Now!" She clapped her hands together and leant forward, barely pausing for breath. "I really am very sorry for barging in on you like this, Mrs Walker, but I understand that my two girls may have imposed themselves on your own children yesterday, and I wanted to meet with you and apologise in advance for anything they may have done."

"I see," said Mary, not entirely sure if her visitor was being serious or not.

"Don't get me wrong," said Mrs Blackett, and the laughter in her voice was more evident than before. "They're good girls...far kinder to their doddering old mother than she deserves..."

Mary began to interject to protest the 'doddering' - not to mention the 'old' - but was ignored with an airy hand.

"...but I've no idea how I managed to raise two such tomboys, I really don't. I wish I could say with certainty that they didn't get it from my side of the family, but, well..." She laughed. "It might be something of an untruth. My brother encourages them terribly - or at least he used to - and they've probably spent too much time on their own. I should have sent them off to school earlier, I suppose." She paused briefly, her cheerful face suddenly serious; but the moment passed before Mary could gather her thoughts sufficiently enough to contribute to the conversation, and Mrs Blackett was off again.

"They were tremendously excited to meet your children yesterday, but so excited that I really couldn't get very much information out of them! You have four, I believe? What are their names?"

She smiled at Mary, who had been so overwhelmed by the steady flow of talk that it took a second or two to realise that she had been asked a question and was expected to answer. "Oh...the four your girls would have met are the eldest; John, then Susan, Titty and Roger. But I have another one somewhere about, just two years old. She's in the garden with her nurse at the moment." And she nodded towards the window through which could just be glimpsed two white figures. "And your girls?"

"Just the two of them," said Mrs Blackett comfortably, showing no signs of moving despite her earlier haste. "Ruth and Margaret. It's funny, I always wanted a big family - it was just my big brother and me growing up, and I always wanted lots of sisters to play with - but it wasn't to be, and I couldn't ask for more than my pair. I do worry sometimes that they may be a little lonely, though. There aren't many children around this area of a similar age, you see, and now with this war going on between them and their uncle..."

"I'm sorry?" said Mary in polite confusion.

Mrs Blackett sighed. "Oh, it's a long story -" she stopped and grinned "- and although that wouldn't normally stop me in the slightest, I really must be going, so it will have to be the short version. My brother's so dreadfully busy over this book he's writing at the moment, and I'm afraid my tomboys lead him a terrible life. He spent a great deal of time with them last summer, let them run riot all over his houseboat, but he just doesn't have the time at the moment and I'm not sure the girls really understand why. It's a touch tricky to be honest with you, I sometimes feel rather caught in the middle.

"But I am so glad they've met your lot. It will be good for them to have some other children to play with. I just hope they're not too wild for your four." She smiled at Mary cheerfully enough, but there was a question behind her words and it took Mary a moment to decide to smile back.

"I'm sure they're not."

"Well, we can hope," said Mrs Blackett. "I'm just rather relieved that they didn't instantly declare war, as far as I know! My girls are so proprietorial when it comes to that island, I was half afraid that they would set fire to the tents and capsize any boats they found there...well, perhaps not," she added hastily as Mary half rose out of her chair in alarm. "I don't think I brought them up quite _that_ badly."

Mary regained her smile, beginning to understand her visitor a bit better. "I'm glad to hear it. It sounds as though the children might become friends."

"They seem to have become firm friends already!" laughed Mrs Blackett. "My Aunt Maria always insists that sudden friendships are not to be trusted, but I've always rather thought that those are the best kind. I do hope you and I will be friends, Mrs Walker."

She beamed at Mary who couldn't help almost laughing, her reserve being overcome by her visitor's good humour. "I'm sure we shall."

"Wonderful!" Mrs Blackett stood up. "I am most awfully sorry to interrupt your nice peaceful afternoon like this and then run straight off, but I really must be going." She held out her hand and Mary took it briefly. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Walker. I do hope we meet again soon."

"It was a pleasure to meet you too, Mrs Blackett."

***

_3 August 1930_

"Heaven help me, the dust on the mirror in the hall!" cried Mrs Jackson, and she shot from the room as though it were on fire.

"Mrs Jackson," called Mary, trying not to laugh, "you have already dusted the mirror. I saw you do so this morning."

Mrs Jackson, the 'solid, dependable sort of woman' who had seemed completely unflappable until told that Maria Turner would be coming for tea, slunk back into the parlour, wringing a duster between her hands. "Aye, 'tis so, Mrs Walker." She stood for a moment, frantically twisting the cloth before bursting out, "You're quite certain I did so?" She glanced at the clock on the wall as she spoke.

"Quite certain," said Mary, abandoning the losing battle to hide her smile. "The house is spotless, Mrs Jackson, please do stop distressing yourself. I'm quite sure Miss Turner can have no complaints."

The expression on Mrs Jackson's face clearly showed her opinion of this statement. Having seen the children off to their camp with a calm efficiency, she had been in a state of virtual panic ever since the note from Mrs Blackett had arrived the previous day, to Mary's bewilderment and increasing amusement. All attempts to find out exactly what was so terrible about the impending visitor, however, had been met by a look of wild-eyed fear and a muttered comment along the lines of "Aye, well, Miss Turner's very particular." Then Mrs Jackson would vanish to get back down on her hands and knees to scrub the staircase once again.

Mary's curiosity had very definitely been piqued. She had been looking forward to seeing Mrs Blackett again since returning to the lakes, and had half-expected an invitation to Beckfoot. But the note, which had arrived at Holly Howe only the day after they had, had contained no cheery message of greeting but a few, short sentences to announce that Mrs Blackett would be visiting the next day with her brother and her aunt.

They were due to arrive at half past three, and the clock on the mantelpiece was reading twenty-six minutes past as Mrs Jackson completed her final circuit of the room, searching for any dust that might have escaped her best efforts. She glanced down at Bridget, playing on the floor with a pair of rag dolls, and then back up at Mary, clearly with something on her mind.

"Everything all right, Mrs Jackson?" said Mary, smiling.

"Aye, mum," said Mrs Jackson hesitantly, "but...do you not think it would be best, Mrs Walker, to have the little one out of the way when Mrs Turner arrives?" Her hands were never ceasing now, twisting the duster back and forth, and Mary was beginning to feel giddy looking at her.

"I'm sure she won't be any trouble, Mrs Jackson," she said cheerfully, beginning to feel slightly nervous despite herself. "It's Verity's half-day and it would have been a bit hard to ask her to miss it. Do you think Miss Turner would object?"

"Aye, well, that's not for me to say, but -" The sentence was never completed as the clang of the bell echoed down the passage. Mrs Jackson leapt into the air surprisingly high for a woman of her girth, cried "Lord help me, they're here!", paused to run her hand over the mantelpiece once more time, then practically fled from the room.

Mary glanced at the clock and was amused, if not entirely surprised, to find that it was exactly half-past three. Somehow, she suspected that this was Miss Turner's timekeeping rather than Mrs Blackett's.

"Bridget, come here please." And holding out her hand to take tight hold of Bridget's, she stood up and, oddly apprehensive, prepared to meet the ogre.

The 'ogre' was, unsurprisingly, a prim, elderly woman, leaning heavily on a parasol as she entered the room. Far more surprising were the other visitors; Mary would hardly have recognised the quiet, pale woman as Molly Blackett had she not been expected. Looking nervous, she carried off the introductions whilst her brother hovered awkwardly behind, stiff and strange in what looked like his Sunday best.

"...and Vicky, Mrs Walker's youngest child," Mrs Blackett finished, looking relieved.

Bridget, unusually bold in the presence of strangers, promptly piped up, "_Not_ Vicky."

Miss Turner raised her eyebrows and Mary leapt in before she could speak. "Her name is actually Bridget, but we used to call her Vicky." Feeling somehow that she had already failed some kind of test - and that now would not perhaps be the best time to mention how her daughter had acquired the nickname - Mary smiled politely and held out her hand. "It's nice to meet you, Miss Turner."

Miss Turner took the proffered hand briefly, nodded once and said, "And you, Mrs Walker."

"Please do sit down," said Mary, with the oddness sensation that she was taking part in some serious Victorian play. "I believe Mrs Jackson will be bringing in the tea shortly."

"Indeed," said Miss Turner. She was sat stiffly upright, looking around the room as though inspecting it.

There was a long pause, and Mary, unusually tongue-tied herself, was suddenly struck by the odd thought that everyone had forgotten their lines. Miss Turner, having finished with the Holly Howe parlour, was now giving Mary the same treatment, looking her up and down and giving the distinct impression that her target was not passing muster.

Managing to keep her face straight despite an overwhelming desire to giggle, Mary looked desperately at Mrs Blackett for help; but her ally appeared to have been struck dumb with the rest of them - a feat in itself - and it was Jim Turner that came to her rescue.

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Mrs Walker," he said politely. "How are you? And the children?"

"Oh, we're all quite well," said Mary, smiling with relief. "The children are already camping on the island - it was quite hard to make them wait until we had unpacked. I imagine Nancy and Peggy will be joining them soon?"

A natural question; but looking back on it later, it was the very possibly the worst thing she could have said. Mrs Blackett and Jim Turner both winced, whilst Miss Turner somehow managed to sit up even straighter in her chair and positively bristled with indignation.

"I rather think Ruth and Margaret's time-" and there was a clear emphasis on both names "-is better occupied completing their holiday tasks. I do not agree with letting children run wild by themselves." The expression on her face indicated very clearly that she did not think Mary had such high standards. "The very idea of letting children spend days off camping by themselves, entirely unsupervised!"

"I do keep in regular contact with them, Miss Turner," said Mary, quietly and calmly despite the rage beginning to boil inside. "And I believe I brought my children up to be sensible."

"Clearly, it is not for me to tell you how to raise your children, Mrs Walker," said the elderly woman grimly, obviously not meaning a word of it. "But I do worry rather about these trends in modern parenting. In my day, children were raised to be seen and not heard."

"Well, I'm afraid I must disagree with you, Miss Turner," said Mary firmly, keeping her polite smile. Jim Turner closed his eyes in horror and Mrs Blackett made a sound half-way between a gulp and a gasp; but Mary continued heartlessly. "My husband and I rather believe that children should be allowed to be children."

"Well," said Miss Turner, her eyebrows flying so far up her forehead they were in danger of disappearing into her hairline, "far be it for me to interfere... Your husband is in the Navy, I believe?"

"That's correct," said Mary, a little surprised by the change of direction and wondering if it would be petty to add 'he's a Commander in Her Majesty's Royal Navy, _actually_'.

Miss Turner sniffed and made no further comment; but before Mary could speak again, Mrs Blackett suddenly found her voice.

"The weather...continues rather fine, doesn't it?" she said, sounding almost desperate. "I do wonder whether it might break soon, though."

Mary glanced at her, surprised - she sounded so unlike the jolly woman Mary had met a year ago - and felt a flash of guilt at the expression on the pale face. She looked at Mary almost beseechingly and there was a moment of silent understanding between the two women.

Then Mary swallowed her pride and her anger, smiled at her visitors and said, "I do rather hope the good weather continues for a while yet. Do you think it will, Miss Turner?"

***

_13 August 1930_

The woman who opened the Beckfoot front door could not have looked more different than the pale visitor in the Holly Howe parlour of a few days ago. Her face lit up with genuine pleasure as she saw them; and after flurries of greetings and kisses and handshakes and the other appropriate rituals, she led them into the house, a constant stream of talk taking them from room to room.

Mary stayed silent, kept a tight hold of Bridget's hand, and looked around with interest. She had never been inside the house before. It was larger than she had expected and warm and welcoming for the most part, but very old-fashioned inside, with dark, heavy wallpaper and the occasional sign of damp and neglect, though every room was spotlessly clean.

"...And here we have the dining room." Mrs Blackett grimaced as they walked inside. "Unfortunately, it does not get the best natural light at this time of day. Or any time of day, really."

The lack of light was not helped by the olive green wallpaper or the amount of old, mahogany furniture crammed into the room, but Mary had been brought up too well to say so. "What a lovely table," she said instead.

Mrs Blackett sighed. "Too big for the room, really. If it were up to me, I'd get rid of the half of the furniture in this house, not to mention the wallpaper. I'd rip it all out and replace it with something bright and modern."

"Is it not up to you?" said Mary, smiling. She had meant it light-heartedly, but Mrs Blackett looked at her as though she had said something extraordinary.

"I suppose it is," she said as though the idea had never occurred to her before. "But Aunt Maria would be horrified at the idea."

Mary longed to point out that it was not, in fact Maria Turner's house, and Mrs Blackett could decorate it any way she wanted; but she did not know her hostess well enough to make the comment and they moved on to the next room to the accompaniment of Mrs Blackett's cheerful chatter.

The tour finished on the Beckfoot lawn, bright green in the summer sunshine, presenting a much better view of the old stone house than the dark interiors had afforded.

"It's lovely," said Mary, managing to get a word in almost for the first time since arriving at the house, and meaning it. "It's a beautiful house."

"I do rather agree with you," said Mrs Blackett, her eyes sparkling, "but I may be a tad biased."

Mary laughed. "I think you have a right to be."

"Right!" cried Mrs Blackett, changing the subject swiftly and clapping her hands together. "Tea? It's such a beautiful day, I could bring some chairs out and we could drink it out here...?"

"That would be lovely."

Mrs Blackett headed back into the house to talk to Cook and Mary, a little dazed from the constant chatter, finally relinquished her tight hold on Bridget's hand which had been squirming impatiently for the last ten minutes. Her youngest daughter promptly ran after one of the butterflies that dotted the lawn and Mary called after in alarm.

"Don't go too near the edge, Bridgie!" Bridget gave no indication that she had heard; but the butterfly was in no mood to be grabbed by sticky fingers and had floated gently back to towards the house, its pursuer falling behind.

The sun was baking hot, flooding the Beckfoot lawn with colour and reflecting off the river. The dazzling colours on the water almost blinded Mary, so she turned back towards the house, her hand shading her eyes. One eye still on her daughter, she looked again at the old grey house, looking almost golden in the sunshine, and wondered, not for the first time, about its occupants. Mrs Jackson's gossip - which she had neither sought or encouraged, not that there had been that much of it - had told her very little about this family which seemed to be so important in the local community.

_"Widowed very young, poor girl," the farmer's wife had clucked that summer evening a year ago, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Mrs Blackett was well out of girlhood with two girls of her own. "Left by herself to raise those two, it's no wonder they've gone a bit wild. And that brother of hers was no help at all, forever gadding off to foreign parts." She kneaded the dough with a little more force than necessary, someone to whom foreign parts was anything further than Penrith._

"Are they really that wild?" Mary had asked, thinking of her own five, with their father so far away.

Mrs Jackson had sniffed. "Aye, well, mebbe not. I dare say they're good girls at heart. But there's a sight more of the Turner about them than the Blackett..." And then the door opened and Mr Jackson came in, wiping his boots and sniffing the air with the pleasure of a man who has earned his delicious-smelling supper, and Mary never got to ask what she had meant.

"Penny for your thoughts, Mrs Walker," said a cheerful voice, and Mary turned around to find her hostess had returned.

"I was just admiring the house," said Mary, feeling slightly guilty despite herself.

Mrs Blackett laughed. "Now really, that's quite enough of that. We could stand here all day trading compliments but I rather fancy a cup of tea and a good gossip before the galloping hordes arrive, how about you?"

"It sounds quite good to me, Mrs Blackett," said Mary, smiling.

She waved a hand as they moved to the chairs. "Please, call me Molly. It seems a little silly to stand on ceremony when our children have all but adopted one another."

"They do seem to have become rather attached, don't they?" Mary agreed. "And of course, you must call me Mary."

"I'll try," said Molly chirpily, beginning to pour out the tea, "but I can't promise anything. Sugar?"

"None for me, thank you," said Mary, waiting for an explanation for the rather odd statement.

Molly settled back in her chair. "You see, my Aunt Maria is the only person who still calls me Mary, so it's a name I have a slight aversion to."

"I didn't realise your name was Mary," said the other Mary, surprised but also relaxing back in her exceedingly comfortable chair.

"It isn't. Everyone I know has called me Molly since I was a small child. But yes, I was christened Mary and Aunt Maria prefers to call people by their given names. No one else has called Peggy 'Margaret' since the day she was born, the poor child always looks so confused when Aunt Maria does."

Mary laughed. "I did notice that she called your brother 'James'," she admitted.

"You see? What's wrong with Jim, I ask you? I haven't dared tell her that the children have taken to calling him Captain Flint, I think she'd disown me."

Her tone was light, but there was a clear trace of tension beneath it and Mary sipped her tea quietly, wishing she knew her hostess well enough to pry further.

"I imagine she does not call Nancy by that name," she risked, and Molly shuddered.

"Rather definitely not. I don't think she'll ever really forgive me for letting Nancy call herself that."

"I rather think it suits her."

Molly looked up and smiled widely, the effect transforming her face. "I would never tell Aunt Maria so, but...me too. Even I can't think of her as Ruth any more, and I gave her the name!"

There was a silence as both women drank their tea, watching the small blue figure of Bridget dance from one flower to another across the lawn. Mary longed to ask more, to find out if it had really been that bad; but she never could and so the silence dragged out.

"I am very glad that my children have met yours," said Molly suddenly, and Mary looked at her in surprise. "I hope you don't think..." She stopped and started again. "I do so hope they stay friends."

Mary swallowed, her throat strangely tight. "I hope so too." She wanted to reassure her companion, but did not know how. "You should be proud of your girls."

Molly gave an odd sort of choking laugh. "I hope I should be. Sometimes I'm not so sure. But I suppose there's worse things than being late for meals."

"Much worse things," said Mary with feeling. "I have no doubt of it."

"It's as you said the other day. 'Children should be allowed to be children'."

"I've always thought so."

"My brother said," Molly said in a rush of words, looking away towards the house, "that Bob would have liked them just as they are."

"I'm sure he would have," said Mary, quietly but firmly.

Molly turned back and her face broke into a sudden, if watery, smile. "Actually," she said, "so am I. But Aunt Maria never really approved of Bob either."

For a brief moment, they held each other's gaze; but the split-second of understanding was broken by Bridget running up, bored of the butterflies and demanding a biscuit, and Molly reverted to the sunny, happy hostess, chattering away cheerfully.

It wasn't until the race and then the feast was over, covered by the noisy chatter of the children, that Molly turned back to Mary and said, "Children need to be children, right?" And she smiled.

Mary shrugged, glancing at her own with pride. "It all depends on what sort of children they are."

"It certainly seems to work with yours."

And it was some time after that, just as Mary was thinking that Jim must have finished setting up the camp and it was about time she was heading back to Holly Howe, that Molly turned to her and said, "Perhaps the dining room could do with a lick of paint."

"Why stop there?"

***

_7 August 1931_

"They actually found copper?" Mary stared in disbelief, her teacup stalled halfway to her lips.

Molly nodded, her eyes sparkling. "They didn't tell you that?"

"Well, no," said Mary weakly. "I mean, the last letter I received from Titty said that they had found gold on the fells and that it was all terribly secret, but I didn't think that they had actually _found_ anything. And I couldn't make head or tails out of anything I heard this morning." She had gone straight to Beckfoot from the train to meet her children, and had received a rapturous welcome and a lot of garbled chatter. It wasn't until Molly had rescued her, shooing the children away to make sure everything was packed and ready to shift camp to Wild Cat Island, that she had been sat down with a cup of tea and told the full story. And Molly, always one for the dramatic, had chosen to start with the fire on the Topps.

"After all," Mary continued, "you know what Titty's like..."

Molly laughed. "That was more or less my reaction. But no, this seems to be quite true. I can't remember the last time I saw my brother this excited...and the children too, though they seem to be less excited about the copper than the possibility of Jim having an excuse to stay around these parts." She looked at Mary, unsmiling, but with a tell-tale twinkle in her eye that Molly was beginning to recognise. "Would you think me a terrible person if I told you that I had no intention of them finding anything at all, but only of getting the lot of them out from under my feet during the day? It was the perfect plan; I could keep an eye on the painters and plasterers and the rest of them while the children spent all day gallivanting around the valley, and then keep an eye on the children at night while the paperers and plasterers were hopefully home and _not_ gallivanting around the valley."

She signed heavily, a sheepish look on her face. "I had forgotten that something always happens to perfect plans whenever my daughters are around. I don't know how they do it."

"'The best laid plans of mice and men'," quoted Mary, smiling gently. "It was a very good plan in principle."

"I must apologise to you though, Mary."

Mary frowned. "Why?"

"Because," said Molly, looking genuinely guilty, "I did promise that I would keep them all close by, not let them go off camping by themselves in this dreadful drought with idiots everywhere who don't stub out their cigarettes."

"They could have just as easily been in a fire here in the garden..." Mary began reassuringly.

Molly made a face. "I rather hope not!"

"...and it sounds as though they all acted quite sensibly. More than sensibly. I feel quite proud of all of them." She thought about it. "Though I'd prefer it if they didn't have to do it again."

"I still feel horribly guilty," Molly confessed. "And you at home worrying about Bridget, thinking I was looking after your children. Somehow, Nancy just wore me down." She grinned awkwardly. "And somehow I just kept thinking, 'well, if Susan thinks it's all right...'"

Mary put down her teacup, relaxed back in her chair and laughed out loud. "You're not the first. We all rely on Susan to be the sensible one so much, I sometimes think we forget that the others do have sense when they remember to use it."

"You know," said Molly, looking thoughtful, "every now and then, I suspect that Nancy is actually a very sensible young woman, she just chooses to pretend not to be."

"I'm sure she'll grow out of it."

"Grow out of being sensible or _not_ being so?"

"The latter."

"Perhaps, perhaps not," said Molly with a shrug. "I'm not sure I ever did!"

They smiled at each other for a brief moment before Molly broke the eye contact and turned to glance out of the window. "I really am very sorry, though. I keep thinking of what might have happened..."

There was a hidden plea in her words; but Mary could only reassure her that "it was really quite all right," not having the courage to simply say; _I trust you with my children_.

But somehow, she fancied Molly had understood, even though all she said was, "So! What do you think of the new wallpaper?"

***

_7 August 1935_

"It feels so strange," said Titty sadly, looking out over the Holly Howe lawn towards the lake.

"Without John, you mean?" said her mother, calmly knitting in her favourite chair, glad to be back.

Titty screwed up her nose as she nodded. "No John, no Ds..."

"Oh, did I tell you?" Molly interrupted cheerfully. "I received a letter from Mrs Callum only the day before you arrived...they think they might be back in England earlier than expected, and may come up as early as the week after next."

"You hear that, Titty?" said Mary, half-absorbed in counting stitches. "Dick and Dorothea will be here shortly. I'm sure you won't even miss John."

"Yes," said Titty doggedly, clearly determined not to let go of her melancholy mood, "but it isn't the same. Things keep changing. And next year Susan won't be here either..."

"Or Peggy, probably," said Nancy. She was lying stretched out on the grass, hands behind her head, despite her dignified age and the fact that she had finally bowed to her mother's wishes and started dressing more like a young woman and less like a ten-year old boy.

"Why not Peggy?" asked Titty.

"I thought you knew, she's decided to start nursing college with Susan."

"No, I thought she was staying at school for another year first!" Titty was looking extremely put out. "Did you know, Mother?"

Mary shook her head, still counting. _Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty..._ "I knew it was a possibility, but I wasn't aware she had decided yet." She looked up and smiled at Molly. "That's wonderful news. I'm so glad they'll be starting their studying together."

"It's quite appropriate, really," said Nancy lazily. "Both Mates together. Now, if they would only let girls join the Navy..."

Molly shuddered. "No, thank you. You can stay here where I can keep an eye on you." She sighed. "I really wish you would sit up, Nancy. Think what Aunt Maria would say."

Nancy grinned, not opening her eyes. "I know jolly well what the GA would say. And she'd call me Ruth while saying it."

"Well, if I call you Ruth, would you pay more attention to me?"

"Not a chance," said Nancy; but she got to her feet with good grace, walked over to perch on the edge of her mother's chair and kiss the top of her head. "But I'll pretend to be a grown-up, just for you, Mother."

"I'm touched," said Molly dryly.

"Everything's changing," said Titty again, still looking wistful. "We always said that we would come back here every year, for ever and ever, until we were quite grown up..."

The two mothers exchanged glances over her head. "That's the trouble, dear," said Mary softly. "The 'quite grown up' part comes sooner than you expect."

Molly cleared her throat and obviously decided to steer the conversation to safer waters. "How is John?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," said Mary, laughing. "I've only had one letter since he left. Letter writing has never been his best skill."

"Really?" said Molly, appearing surprised. "That's odd, I was sure Nancy had received quite a few letters..." She winked at Mary, who hid her smile as two high spots of colour appeared on Nancy's cheeks.

But Captain Nancy chose not to rise to the bait, coolly replying, "Don't exaggerate, Mother. He's written to me twice."

"He sent me a couple of letters at school," said Titty, cheering up slightly. "But he won't tell me much about what it was like. They were very short letters."

"And yours, Nancy?" said Molly innocently.

Nancy gave her mother a scathing look; but was saved having to reply by the arrival of the rest of the hordes, who had been loading up with stores in Rio.

"Phew!" cried Bridget, dropping to the ground next to her mother. The Holly Howe lawn had become incredibly crowded, and Mary tried to shift her chair slightly to make room. "It's so hot! We got an awful lot of things."

"Enough chocolate for Roger?" Nancy suggested, grinning.

Roger glared at her. "Enough for the Ship's Baby, rather."

"Hey," Bridget protested. "I'm an able-seaman now, you can't call me that any more." And she stuck her tongue out at him as a closing argument.

"Please don't do that, Bridget," said Mary absently. "Suppose the wind were to change. Did you get everything you needed, Susan?"

She nodded, but frowned slightly and said, "But we ought to get a move on if we're to have the camp ready today."

"All hands on deck!" cried Nancy, getting to her feet, and Mary almost laughed out loud at the look of sheer horror that flashed across Susan's face.

"No, that's quite all right, Nancy," she said politely, clearly having visions of her careful packing thrown into chaos by well-meaning helpers. "Why don't you take Roger and Bridget out in _Swallow_ instead? Make sure she's still seaworthy?"

Nancy grinned, not abashed in the slightest. "Fair enough, Skipper. What do you say, AB? Fancy showing a couple of old hands how it's done?"

The rest of the afternoon passed in an orgy of packing and stowing, and it was not until both the _Swallow_ and the _Amazon_ had been loaded to the gunwales and both crews waved on their way that one mother was able to turn to the other and say, "Did John really write several letters to Nancy?"

Molly smiled impishly. "I don't actually know. It's just fun to see the expression on her face when I tease her about it." Perhaps she then saw the expression on her friend's face, for she laughed and said. "Oh, don't look at me like that! I have to take my small pleasures where I can, you would do the same."

"Perhaps," said Mary, amused.

"It's just nice to turn the tables on the horrible child for once. Teach her not to make quite so much fun of her elderly mother."

"If you're elderly, then what on earth am I?" laughed Mary.

Molly appeared to ponder the question, looking out over the lake to the two small boats on opposite tacks. "Eternally youthful," she said eventually, and Mary, to her surprise, felt her own cheeks flood with colour.

***

_22 August 1940_

"This really is very good of you," said Mary for what felt like the fiftieth time; and Molly once again shrugged off the thanks.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said cheerfully. "As long as Titty and Bridget really don't mind camping in the garden, I'm thrilled to have you for as long as you want to say."

"They don't seem to," said Mary with a smile. They were sat, once again, on the Beckfoot lawn after the Walkers' long train journey from the South, and were watching Titty and Bridget teaching the Manchester evacuees how to correctly erect a tent. Mary, who had read the newspaper accounts of children separated from their parents with the horror of someone who can all too easily imagine it happening to her, had half-expected the evacuated children to be poor, distressed things, homesick and miserable. But the children shouting excitedly as they struggled with ropes and tent-pegs were no different to her own children at that age, and she watched them with surprise and something akin to affection.

"Of course," she went on, "once autumn comes and the rain starts falling they may feel differently...but Titty at least is rather excited about it." She paused for a moment, watching the activity, and added, "She does get so horribly affected by it all."

"The war?" asked Molly.

"You know what Titty's like. She gets so easily stirred by things. I do wish she'd stop reading the newspapers, they just upset her...and every time she sees one of those advertisements for the Wrens, she gets that look in her eye that frightens me so."

"I remember," said Molly softly, and her friend turned to her with a flash of guilt.

"I'm so sorry. I haven't even asked how Nancy is getting on."

Molly shrugged. "Well enough, as far as I know. She's still training but she'll most likely be sent out within the next month or two." She suddenly grinned. "She keeps telling me that she is, in fact, far safer than Peggy working in London, in a hospital that's already been bombed twice. I _think_ she meant it to be comforting, but my daughter has never really understood the meaning of the word."

"I'm sure she means well," said Mary, wincing. "Is Peggy still in London? I thought they were moving most of the nursing staff out to the country because of the air-raids."

"She'll be moved eventually, but as with everything else at the moment, it seems to be happening very slowly." She turned to look at Mary. "Do you really think Titty will join the Wrens?"

"She hasn't asked yet," said Mary, watching her daughter chat merrily to Bridget. "If she does...I won't let her until she's older. I can't - " and her voice suddenly cracked with the strain she had been bearing all these months " - I _can't_ have her out there too. I only have her and Bridget left, what would I do?" She suddenly felt an odd, burning sensation at the back of her eyes and she blinked rapidly to clear it.

"I tried to explain that to Nancy," said Molly, looking out towards the lake. "To ask her not to leave me on my own. But she wore me down in the end." She smiled, looking amused. "She always does."

"Do you not worry about them?" Mary dared.

"All the time."

"Sometimes," Mary admitted, wondering why she was suddenly being so open, "I wake up in the middle of the night, absolutely convinced that Ted, or John, or Roger is dead, and nothing can convince me otherwise until I get a letter or a telegram. I just feel in my bones that we won't all make it through this. We _can't_, no one is that lucky..."

"All right!" cried Molly suddenly, getting to her feet. "That's enough now, we're getting silly."

Mary stopped, feeling guilty. She had been too honest and made her friend uncomfortable.

But Molly was still gently smiling at her. "I'm at fault, encouraging us to wallow in our misery. Wars don't last forever. I'm going to make it my mission to distract us from all these morbid thoughts. Are you with me?" She raised an eyebrow and Mary chuckled, standing up.

"Aye, aye, sir."

"That's better. Right! Who wants tea?"

***

_11 August 1948_

She wasn't really sure why Molly had invited her to Beckfoot; nor, if she was honest, why she had said yes. But John and Susan had each encouraged her to go, convinced her that a change of scenery would do her the world of good. She had wondered vaguely at the time why they were worrying so much about her when they had their own grief to deal with; but when she had ventured this opinion, John had just given her a brief, one-armed hug and told her to stop being a galoot.

He had never called her a galoot before, she realised in the dream-like way she had been doing most of her thinking recently, as the train pulled into the station and she started gathering up her bags. Perhaps it had been a bad idea, letting him marry Nancy...

She was silent on the journey from the station to Beckfoot - apart from the occasional gasp and gulp each time they narrowly avoided death by Molly's driving - as she let the merry stream of chatter wash over her. Despite all the years she had known her, somehow Mary could still be surprised by Molly's ability to talk for hours, seemingly without pause for breath.

"...but, long story short, Peggy will be able to come up for a week before the end of the summer and I'm very much looking forward to seeing her. She's bringing a friend with her from the hospital to visit, so it should be a real holiday for her. I just wish that she didn't live so horribly far away...Oh, for goodness sake! Wasn't it obvious I was turning right? They do let some idiots on the roads...all right, Mary, you needn't laugh like that. I had right of way."

Mary had not even been aware that she was smiling; and with the realisation, it dawned on her that perhaps that was why she had been invited and why she had been told to accept the invitation.

It wasn't until later though, as they sat in the drawing room with a cup of tea after supper, that she found the courage to ask the question - but not the courage to phrase it _as_ a question.

"Thank you for inviting me, it really is very kind of you."

Molly waved a dismissive hand, as she bent forward to pick up her teacup. "Don't be silly. We're family."

"I suppose we are," she said, smiling. "I hadn't really thought of it like that."

Molly put her cup down again and leaned forward to look earnestly into Mary's face.

"How are you, Mary, really?"

The close scrutiny made her feel uncomfortable, and she shrugged and said, "Oh, well enough, I suppose."

Molly looked at her. "When...Bob died," she began hesitantly and Mary glanced up in surprise, "I didn't really feel I had anyone I could talk to." She paused, but Mary stayed silent, hardly daring to say anything, scared to break the tension that had filled the room. Molly had never really spoken about her late husband, never mentioned him in any detail; Mary had only found out how and when he died through the gossip of the farmers' wives. "I felt...trapped here, in this house, with the girls. Not that I didn't love them to pieces, of course I did, but they were both so young...I felt as if I had nowhere to go, no one to confide in. Jim was in South America and I couldn't talk to my friends, I couldn't burden them with it..."

The late evening sunlight streamed into the room, still light even at this hour now that she was further north, and Mary almost held her breath as she watched Molly talk.

"I felt so angry, so overwhelmingly furious; at Jim for not being here, at the girls for not understanding, at Bob for leaving me, even at the house for trapping me here. And I remember wanting so desperately to get out, to go somewhere else where everything didn't remind me of Bob, where there might be people who treated me normally and not as though I were made of glass." Then she suddenly smiled, a memory striking her. "Aunt Maria wrote several times, offering to come and stay, but for some strange reason, I thought that might make things worse." She laughed. "I think it's the only time in my entire life that Aunt Maria actually listened to me."

She turned back to Mary, still smiling, still jolly, little, plump Molly Blackett, but looking somehow different in Mary's eyes. "I suppose what I'm trying to say is - and I'm not phrasing it very well - you're welcome to stay as long as you want."

Their eyes met in a moment of understanding; then Mary said slowly, "I don't feel angry. I don't really feel anything. I don't know what I feel."

"Who says you have to know?"

"Bridget was so upset," said Mary, suddenly longing to talk after weeks of virtual silence. "She and Susan cried for days, but then they just got on with things, sensibly. Titty just fell to pieces. She's still in pieces. I want to comfort her but I don't know what to say. And the boys...are the boys. They were both angry, but they got on with their lives. They all seem to be moving forward and I feel like I'm stuck behind. As though I'm wading through treacle. And..." Her voice broke and she suddenly felt the touch of a hand; Molly had got up and was perched on the arm of the chair, rubbing her back in slow circles as though she were a child.

"And...I can't cry. My children all keep looking at me as though they expect me to cry, but I just can't. I don't know why."

"It's all right," said Molly gently. "You don't have to cry."

"I must be a horrible person," said Mary; and even though her eyes were prickling, the tears would not fall.

"Of course you're not." And the hand kept stroking her back, a touch so comforting that all Mary wanted to do was lean into those warm arms and be reassured that it was all right.

But she wasn't a child. And as comforting as the touch was, she couldn't give into it, couldn't lose her reserve and break down in front of her friend. She pulled back and picked up her teacup.

"I'm sorry, Molly. I'm quite all right, really."

Molly paused, an unreadable expression on her face. "If you're sure." She went back to her chair to drink her tea and Mary watched her go, feeling strangely bereft, as though something had been taken away and she might never get it back.

***

_28 August 1958_

"Did I show you the photos?" called Molly from the kitchen, where the industrious sounds of tea making had been occurring for the last few minutes.

"I don't think so. What photos?" Mary called back. "And are you sure I can't do anything to help?"

"Hush now, don't be silly," said Molly, appearing in the doorway with a laden tray; and Mary didn't comment on the way her friend's hands shook as she carried it across the room, but instead rose to her feet to help. Molly sat back down in her chair with obvious relief. "There! All done. Try one of the chocolate biscuits, do."

Mary took one dutifully, balancing it on the edge of her saucer. "You mentioned photographs?"

"I did? Oh yes!" Molly pulled herself out of her chair with an obvious effort, and Mary's eyes watched her with concern as she shuffled across the room and back again carrying a photo album.

"John and Nancy bought me a camera when they came up for my birthday - I can't work the blasted thing at all, but Nancy took most of the pictures... There are the girls, see?" She beamed at the pictures of her grandchildren and Mary did the same, choosing to ignore the fact that the camera had already been mentioned when she arrived.

"Oh, how lovely," she said instead; and a pleasant ten minutes was spent cooing over the pictures in the way of fond grandparents everywhere.

"And how's Titty?" asked Molly eventually, leaning back into her chair with a sigh. "A little bird told me she might be moving to Scotland?"

"That's right," said Mary, putting the photos back on the coffee table and settling comfortably back herself. "Did I not tell you? They want David to start earlier, so he's having to move up next week and Titty will join him once she gets the house and everything sorted out, hopefully by the end of September. She's in the most dreadful flap about it, especially with everything going on with Victoria at the moment..."

"Oh, really, what is all the fuss about? So the child got a little drunk, we've all done it."

Mary stared at her in shock; and seeing the look, her friend laughed, the familiar, cheerful ring echoing around the room. "Just me, then?" She smiled vaguely, looking as though she were miles away. "When I was fourteen, two of my friends and I decided to climb the Matterhorn - the Old Man of Coniston," she explained to Mary's confused look. "What did the children always call it? Kanchenjunga? Anyway, we all brought provisions and Gwen, who was probably my best friend at the time, was in charge of the drink. And for some reason known only to herself, she decided to bring her mother's cider which she had stolen from the larder. "It's all right," she told us, "it's not that strong." And of course we believed her, like the gang of innocent schoolgirls we were..."

Mary couldn't help smiling. "I'm sure you were," she said dryly and Molly gave her a sly grin.

"Very innocent, I'll have you know! But we made good time and munched our way through our sandwiches at dinnertime, and then we were thirsty. So out came the cider, and we stayed there, drinking cider and gossiping until someone suddenly noticed that it was getting more than a bit misty."

"Oh, dear."

"Quite. We all leapt to our feet, of course, and started gathering up our things, but our feet weren't quite as steady as they had been and the path wasn't quite as straight..."

"What did you do?" said Mary, genuinely curious.

"What could we do? We stayed there until the fog had lifted, but by then it was dark, so we stayed there until it was light again. Then we made our way home, cold and tired and hungry, with sore feet and splitting headaches, and got into the worst trouble that I had ever been in." For some reason, she did not look terribly sorry about it.

"Was your mother very angry?"

"Oh, my mother was long dead by that point," said Molly, surprisingly cheerful about the fact. "Jim and I were living with Aunt Maria." She paused to let the impact of this sink in, and then laughed at the expression on Mary's face. "Well, you can imagine. I was _strictly_ forbidden from having anything to do with Gwen or Eddy ever again and was confined to my bed for the next month, forced to take hourly doses of cod liver oil to stave off a chill."

Mary stared at the flowery wallpaper of the 'horrid little flat' as Nancy called it, trying to imagine Molly Blackett at fourteen, sneaking off to get drunk on a hillside. "What happened to Gwen?"

"Oh, I still hear from her occasionally. She married a farmer over by Cunsey. Poor thing," she added, frowning, "I think she's getting a bit confused now."

"Yes," said Mary hesitantly; and Molly smiled at her and said, "Enough of the past! Let's talk about the future. How's everyone? How's Titty? She's moved to Scotland now, I hear."

"Not just yet," said Mary, and she explained again in a too-cheerful voice, not knowing what else to do.

***

_1 August 1961_

"Are we all right to park here?" said Mary, as they skidded to a halt on the gravel drive besides the large red-brick building.

"I suppose so," said Nancy, looking up in surprise as she pulled up the handbrake and turned the engine off. "No one's ever told me not to."

They got out of the car, Mary with the slight sense of relief she always felt getting out of any car driven by a Blackett, tinged with the slight sense of trepidation at the thought of risking the return journey. The building looked pleasant, warm and welcoming, and she had heard nothing but good things about it, but she still felt slightly sick with nerves. She almost wished that she hadn't come and was on the verge of turning tail and making a run for it - or at least a slow, faltering walk with her arthritis - but Nancy was still chattering away merrily and they were at the front door before they knew it. It was hard to stay fearful in the face of such determined jollity, even when one knew what was behind it.

"...and they always make sure that she's washed and dressed and expecting us, which is the main thing. They say that routine is the best thing, so I always try to be here at the same time every week...are you okay, Mary?"

"Oh, yes," said Mary, startled out of her thoughts, "I suppose. It's just..." She indicated the front door as Nancy pulled the bell to announce their presence. "Horrible places."

For a moment, something akin to sadness flashed across Nancy's eyes; but it was quickly gone and she smiled sympathetically. "I know. But it's a nice place. The staff are all very friendly and Mum seems to like it here. She should do, the prices they charge!" It was the first time she had ever mentioned the cost in all the months of searching for a home and moving Molly in, and Mary glanced at her in surprise. But before she could work out what to say, the front door opened and a young girl in a nurse's uniform was greeting them.

"Hello, Mrs Walker, how are you?"

"Oh, well enough," said Nancy in her loud, cheerful voice, so like her mother's. "Nice to see you again, Sarah. How's Mum doing?"

"She's in good form today," Sarah told them, standing back and letting them pass her as they entered the bright hallway. "She remembered you were coming and she was very excited." There was the faintest of patronising tones in her voice, and Mary felt a low surge of anger, swiftly controlled.

Nancy appeared not to notice the tone or chose to ignore it, saying, "This is my mother in law, Sarah, also known as Mrs Walker."

The girl smiled at her. "Nice to meet you, Mrs Walker. Follow me, please."

The room, once they had reached it up two staircases and a seemingly never-ending corridor, was light and airy, and not entirely unpleasant. But its occupant was a poor reflection of herself, and Mary - who had not seen her in nearly two years - caught her breath in her throat at the sight of the tiny, skinny old woman who had once been plump, jolly Mrs Blackett.

"Mary!" she cried in delight, though the nurse ignored her, practically shouting as she pointed at the visitors.

"This is Mrs Walker, Mrs Blackett," she said, slowly and loudly. "And your daughter. They've come to visit you, isn't that nice?"

"Don't shout at me like that, girl," said Molly crossly, "I'm not deaf yet. And I'm not blind either, I can see who it is."

Sarah smiled at the other two. "She's a wee bit confused," she said gently, and Mary fought the urge to shout _She's right there! Stop treating her like a child!_ Not that she had ever treated her own children in that patronising way, and she swallowed the anger once again.

The nurse left with a promise to find some tea and Molly's sunny disposition magically reappeared as if it had never left, beaming at Mary. "How are you, my dear? You look so young! It's not fair."

"I'm well," she said, feelings slightly bewildered by the mood changes as she bent down to kiss her friend's cheek. "How are you, Molly?"

"Oh, can't complain, can't complain," said Molly. "But I don't like it here. I want to go home." The sentence shot out of thin air, taking Mary by surprise; but Nancy seemed unbothered as she kissed her mother and perched on the end of the bed.

"You do like it here, Mum," she said patiently. "You were saying just the other day how much you like Mrs Williams and some of the girls who look after you. Julie, remember?"

"What?" Molly looked confused. "Oh, no, no, no...Not Julie. There's no Julie."

"I must have got the name wrong then," said Nancy. "But there's one of the girls that you like, remember, Mum? You liked the way she did your hair?"

"No, no, that's not Julie. You're getting confused."

Nancy laughed; but it wasn't her usual cheerful ring. "Perhaps I am."

"Do you need to go to the toilet?" said Molly, swiftly and suddenly changing tack, and it took Mary a second or two to realise she had been asked a question.

"Oh, no," she said, looking at Nancy, "I'm fine, Molly, thank you."

"Are you sure? It's no trouble, you know, just let us know if you need to go."

"I'm fine, honestly," said Mary, trying to smile.

Nancy quickly changed the subject, standing up to look out of the opened window, the thin green curtains rippling in the breeze. "It's such a beautiful day, Mum, perhaps we could go for a walk later? That would be nice."

"Yes, I suppose." A pause settled over the room as Nancy continued to stare out of the window and Mary searched desperately for something to say.

"This is a lovely room, Molly," she said eventually. "Is the rest of the house nice?"

"Oh, yes," said Molly, smiling and nodding. "It's lovely. I'm very lucky, they're good girls here. But too young, some of them," she added, lowering her voice as the bedroom door opened and a different girl appeared, balancing a tea tray. Nancy rushed over to hold the door open for her whilst Molly tugged on Mary's sleeve to bring her closer. "Too young to be doing this sort of work. Young Julie here should be out having fun, not looking after a doddering old woman like me."

"You're not doddering, Mum," said Nancy, catching the end of this. The girl in question, whatever her name was, had either not heard the comment or was pretending she hadn't, and she gave the visitors a shy smile.

"Is..is there anything else I can get for you?"

"Oh, no-" Nancy began; but she was interrupted by her mother, who had lowered her voice again, pointing at Mary.

"I think my friend needs to go to the toilet," she said, nodding her head in a conspiratorial manner. "Why don't you show her the way, Julie, dear?"

"Oh no, no, I'm fine," Mary said, embarrassed.

"She's fine, Mum, honestly," said Nancy with a great deal more conviction. The girl who had brought the tea politely excused herself and left, obviously used to all this. "Let's have some tea, shall we?" And she began to sort out teacups and saucers with a noisy clatter, her face determinedly bright.

Molly leaned across her armchair and looked earnestly at Molly's face. "Are you quite sure you don't need to go to the toilet, dear?"

Mary nodded and the tears began to prick the back of her eyes.

They didn't fall though; not when she was asked again and again if she needed to go to the toilet; not when she was asked how Ted was; not when Molly snapped at her daughter crossly and called her Ruth; not when she insisted on returning to her room because she was sure the staff were stealing her clothes; not even when she stopped in the dining room to proclaim the food 'disgusting' and say in the plaintive voice of a child, "Please can I go home now?"

They got back into the car to drive home some time later, Mary feeling drained, relieved it was over, and guilty about feeling relieved; when she suddenly heard the sound of sobbing, and turned to find her daughter-in-law crying her eyes out on the steering wheel.

"I'm - fine - honestly," Nancy hiccupped, obviously trying to regain some sort of control. "But -" And she stopped as a fresh wave of sobs broke out once again, and all Mary could do was to reach out awkwardly and wonder why her own tears would not fall.

***

_31 August 1965_

For some time there was no sound in the room except the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the _clack-clack_ of Nancy's knitting needles.

"It was a beautiful funeral," said Mary eventually, unable to bear it any longer, and she winced at the words, sounding too blunt in the silence.

Nancy looked up in surprise, her fingers pausing briefly. "Peggy did most of the work," she said, her voice still almost as jolly and youthful as it was the day Mary had met her. "I just took the credit." And she laughed, that cheerful, ringing laugh her mother had shared.

Mary smiled. "I'm sure that's not true."

Nancy twisted the wool around her fingers again and appeared to think about it. "Well... Peggy organised the tea and that's the part that people remember. Mum would never have forgiven us if people had gone away from here hungry or thirsty."

"But the service was lovely," said Mary, almost seeking reassurance, though she wouldn't have been able to say for what. "I'm sure she will be missed."

"She was already missed," said Nancy, her needles clacking faster and faster. "I've been missing her for years."

There was another pause, before Mary said softly, rarely unguarded, "Me too."

Nancy did not reply, and Mary could hardly see her any more as the soft light of dusk fell around them in Nancy's comfortable sitting room. It was long past time that someone should have put a light on; but neither moved, sitting in silence in the gathering dark.

"It's not fair," Mary blurted out. "She was younger than I was. And she...she meant so much to me." She suddenly didn't care if she was giving away too much or what Nancy would think of her. "And I never told her...she never knew."

"She knew," said Nancy quietly. Mary could no longer make out the details of her face to see her expression, but her voice was warm, soft, understanding. "She never spoke to me about it, but she cared for you. Very much." Her voice broke on the last words and Mary nodded, her own throat too tight to speak.

They sat there in silence for longer; and might have sat there forever had the door not opened and John appeared, demanding noisily to know why they were sitting in the dark and if he could make a start on the leftovers in the fridge and why didn't they put the telly on...? And Nancy laughed and the spell was broken...

...and as they left the room to make a pot of tea, leaving it silent and still once again, Mary leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, thought of Molly and allowed herself to cry.

***

***Author's Note:** It is a fact that the dates in the _Swallows and Amazons_ books do not add up. The first book is very clearly stated to take place in 1929; _Swallowdale_, which takes place a year later, is very clearly stated to take place in 1931. As there is no way to make these dates tally, I have chosen to go with the former for this fic.


End file.
